Racing the Sun(33)

I’ve never actually seen a ghost in my life, and even though I believe in them I’ve always been a bit skeptical. But old villas on Italian hillsides kind of get your imagination running. I listen again and hear the same thump. It sounds like something being dropped or knocked over. The other night it was more like a scratching sound as I passed by it in the hall. It was probably a rat, if anything, but in my imagination in the dark, it was the sound of someone trying to claw their way out.

I had a brief notion of Derio keeping his ex-wife locked up in the attic, but then decided that sort of thing only happens in books.

I get off my stool and look out the windows again to the patio. It’s sunny, bright, and the sea gleams blue. There is absolutely nothing scary going on. I take in a deep breath and head to the stairs.

Once I get to the second floor I pause, holding my breath and listening.

Thump.

There. Above me and down the short hall, almost where the ladder pulls down from the ceiling.

I wish I had something to defend myself with, like a candlestick or something, but I’m not really sure what the protocol is. My knowledge stretches as far as those ghost hunters on YouTube, like that crazy guy with the mustache and the girl who screams a lot, who never really seem to solve anything.

I creep down the hall, my bare feet sticking to the tiles, and then I wait below the attic door, the pulley hanging above me. I inhale, reach up, and with one go jerk it down.

There’s a cry and then the door opens, the steps slamming down onto the tiles. Suddenly, it’s raining books as paperbacks hit the tiles and echo loudly—bang, bang, bang.

When it finally stops and I’m able to swallow my heart back down my throat, I poke my head around the stairs, looking up.

Derio is in the attic, staring down at me with the most exasperated expression on his face.

“Oh, hi,” I say, feeling foolish all of a sudden. “I didn’t know you were up there.”

He swears in Italian then says, “Well, who did you think was up here?”

He’s pissed off. This isn’t good.

“A ghost?” I say, helplessly.

He makes a disgusted face. “A ghost?”

“Yeah,” I say. “I didn’t know anyone was home.”

“You think I would leave you alone in the house after what happened?”

I shrug. Not when he put it that way. “I thought you were all out.”

“Felisa took the twins to the gardens,” he says, his voice hard. “I was up here attending to some matters.”

I look at the books at my feet. They are by his mother, Sophie Larosa, but I don’t recognize the titles. Almost all of them are different, too, in the small mass-market format you might find at a grocery store. “Your mother was a writer,” I say, stating the very obvious, though I know he knows he’s never told me that himself.

He makes a disgruntled sound and comes down the stairs in a huff. “I was organizing these,” he says, gathering all the books into his arms. I try not to look at his muscles or his angry, handsome face.

“What for?” I ask. “How many books has she written?”

He shoots me a look that says it’s none of my business. But I have the power of Google and I can make it my business if I want to. “She wrote a lot,” he concedes.

“What kind of books?”

“Does it matter?” he asks.

“I love books, I read all the time,” I tell him. Of course it matters. “Have any been translated into English?”

“No,” he says, somewhat bitterly. “Not yet.”

I reach for one of the books on the pile. “Can I have one? Maybe it will help me learn Italian.”

He holds the books away from me. “These are not for sale.”

“I’m not going to buy one, I’m going to borrow one.”

He narrows his eyes into mahogany slits. “You’re not going to borrow anything.”

I take my hand back and put it on my hip. “Why do you hate me so much?”

He jerks his head back. “I don’t hate you.”

“Then why are you acting like an ass?”

“Because you act like a little girl,” he says without hesitation.

My eyes widen. “You’re the one playing keep-away with books.”

“I do not know what keep-away is,” he says. “Now, please go make yourself breakfast or something.” He takes the books and goes back up the stairs into the attic.

“Little girls don’t know how to make breakfast!” I yell after him. Not my best comeback.

Still, I sigh heavily and head down the stairs and wrangle up some toast and olive oil to get me through the day.



* * *



Because Derio was in such a rotten mood, I was happy when the kids and Felisa got back from the gardens. That was until Felisa started acting harsher than usual, which was saying a lot. Thankfully, Alfonso and Annabella were on their best behavior around me. I could tell that the near-drowning really scared the crap out of them and made them be a little more considerate, even nice. We spent the rest of the day in the garden, and I managed to teach them a little bit about the plants and how to keep them healthy. I decided that in the future I would get them their own pots where they could grow easy herbs. That kind of stuff always kept me occupied and hopeful as a kid.